Supernatural  El Diablo
by weirdyweirderton
Summary: When two women are found mauled to death by what authorities will only describe as a bear or other wild animal, Sam and Dean show up to investigate.


Supernatural - "El Diablo"

Maggie Singer finished her dinner of rice and salad and pushed her chair back from the round little table where she'd eaten it. She gazed out the picture window as the last dregs of sunlight dipped behind the tall pine trees of the Stanislaus National Forest. She watched as the scene outside the window faded into darkness and the orange glow of the overhead light reflected the dining room back on itself: the walls of knotty pine, the old china hutch with its yellow beveled glass, stuffed with a haphazard assortment of fishing implements, wicker tackle baskets and rusted lures. Maggie was in the center of it all - aging, 30 pounds overweight with a road map of fine lines beginning to creep upon her face. She met her own eyes in the reflection and muttered, "It'll be okay, kiddo." Then she lifted herself from the chair and collected her solitary plate, butter dish and bottle of salad dressing and carried it all into the kitchen. She set the plate in the sink and put the butter and salad dressing back to their respective places in the refrigerator. As she closed the door Sheba, her long-haired Siamese, appeared out of thin air and rubbed herself against Maggie's calves. "Hey Shebster, are you flirting with me?" The cat mewed as Maggie bent down to scratch her ears, then let out a squeak as she was hoisted up on to the counter. Maggie opened an overhead cupboard and took out a can of cat food. Sheba mewed again and purred noisily, rubbing herself against Maggie's arms as she pulled back the lid and shook the suspicious contents, brown bits in brown gravy, into the cat's dish. Sheba launched herself at the bowl and Maggie turned her attention back to her dishes. She let the sink fill with warm water as she grabbed the saucepan from the old gas stove and emptied the remaining contents of charred rice into the trash bin. She took it to the sink and dumped it in the water, making an effort not to look at herself again in the window over the sink. She was chiseling at a chunk of brown rice-matter and zoning out when a sudden movement in the window's reflection jolted her out of her reverie. She whipped around, but quickly relaxed when she realized it was just Sheba jumping down from the counter. "All done? Well I hope you enjoyed it 'cause that's the last you're getting until tomorrow!" But the cat was gone, already vanished into the recesses of the cabin. Maggie turned her attention to the sink again and was about to plunge her hands back into the lukewarm water when something outside caught her eye. It was a glint of something in the light. Stiffening she stared hard, squinting beyond the reflection, trying to make out what she was seeing. Suddenly the image resolved itself, clicked into place in her head. It was an eye.

Maggie barked out a short yelp of surprise then pushed herself away from the sink. She ran to the dining room and snatched up her shotgun from where it leaned against the old hutch. She flung open the door and ran out on the deck, pointing the gun at where she'd seen the eye. There was nothing there. "Hey!" she shouted and paced the length of the deck twice, shotgun aimed and ready. Nothing. She could have gone beyond the deck, gone further out into the darkness to pursue the watcher, but for all her bravado, the fearlessness she had always been so proud of - she could not get her feet to step off the deck, could not move herself to step beyond the island and relative safety of her cabin. She went back inside, shut the door fast behind her and turned the dead bolt. Back in the kitchen she pulled down the shade, grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a shot from the bottle on top of the fridge. She downed it and poured another. After living in the mountains for nearly four years, she'd seen her share of critters. Bears, deer, mountain lions, raccoons but she'd never seen an eye that big, that wild and that intelligent before. She went to the little den and collected Sheba from her spot on the back of the couch and carried her, the gun and the glass upstairs. She closed herself into her bedroom and punched the lock in the knob. Depositing Sheba on the bed, she leaned the gun against the nightstand and went to check the closet, a tradition and old superstition since she was a little girl, for monsters. It was clear but she closed the closet door just to be sure. She took a last draw on her glass then shut off the light and climbed into bed. She pulled the covers and the cat close to her and sat awake watching the moon rise out the second floor window. A couple of hours passed and she'd dozed when a ruckus sounded from downstairs. Maggie snapped awake. The moon was high now and it filled the room in pale light. There was another noise from downstairs - the tinny sound of a garbage lid being pried from the can. _Just Raccoons_, she told herself, relaxing slightly. But still, after what had happened earlier she'd better check to make sure. She got up from the bed and grabbed up the shotgun in the gloom. She was at the bedroom door when the closet caught her eye. It was open. Maggie froze. _I shut it, I know I shut it! _She clutched the shotgun more tightly in her hands and moved her finger to the trigger then tiptoed her way over to the closet. She took a slow, deep breath before turning herself toward it's velvety darkness. Then, leading with the gun, she went forward. The closet was pitch dark with the exception of a slash of moonlight. It cut a swath of light through the dark and in its path illuminated an eye. The very same eye that had stared upon Maggie as she stood at her kitchen window. She didn't even have time to scream.

Sam Winchester piloted his brother's black 1967 Chevy Impala up the final stretch of mountain road and pulled into the small parking lot of the Strawberry Store. He eased the land shark between two large, white news vans and let the engine growl slowly to a stop. They were in Strawberry, California, a small town nestled within the Stanislaus National Forest. It has a population of around 200 and a history of Bigfoot encounters during the 1960s and 70s that it had been exploiting with gusto for the last 40 years. At the moment, there were three separate news crews vying for space around a large wooden statue (a fine example of some of the region's chainsaw art) of the creature which had a place of honor in front of the little red store.

One team, having scored primo real estate directly in front of the statue began taping their segment. The newswoman's voice drifted in through the Impala's open window:

"I'm here in Strawberry, California - a place which, as you can see by this big fella behind me, gained notoriety in the 1960s after a string of Bigfoot sightings put this sleepy little mountain town on the map. Most of the reported sightings, however, died down more than 30 years ago, leading many to believe that the big guy had packed up and left town. That is, until two days ago when the body of local woman, Maggie Singer, was found mauled to death by what authorities will only describe as a "large bear or other wild animal." This attack comes on the heels of last week's discovery of the remains of hiker, Nita Mayo. Mayo, discovered during the seasonal draining of Pinecrest Lake, went missing while hiking in late June. Though few details have been released about the cause of her death, authorities have disclosed that Ms. Mayo appears to have also been the victim of a wild animal attack, leaving some in this community to wonder if perhaps their most famous resident has come back home."

Sam turned to his brother with a look of incredulity on his face, "Bigfoot, Dean, are you kidding me?" Dean shrugged his shoulders and gave Sam a cockeyed smile. "Dude, what the Hell? We just drove 26 hours because you said there was something big out in California!" Dean summoned the most sincere look he could muster and said, "This _is_ big, Sammy, I hear these things can grow up to 10, 12 feet tall - and the funk that comes off these bad boys, whew! Almost rivals sitting in a car with you for three days."

"Ha Ha, Dean. You're an idiot." Partly in annoyance and in part to hide his amusement, Sam turned away from him and stared out the windshield at the mini media circus unfolding in front of them. "So why are we here?" he asked after a moment. "Well," Dean answered, serious now, "I think some _thing_ killed the hiker and that woman the other night, but it wasn't Bigfoot and it sure wasn't your typical wild animal." Sam turned to face him, "What do you mean?"

"Let's just say Bigfoot isn't the only urban legend wandering around this forest. For the last 40 years there have been reports, sightings - mostly by kids and campers of a large half-man, half-wolf-"

"Dean, it's not a were-" Sam broke off. He couldn't finish the word. It was still too fresh, too raw a memory. Madison. More proof that he was a curse to anyone he got close to. Dean saw the flash of pain in his brother's eyes and for a second he was hit with a sorrow so deep he was afraid of it. He pushed it away and quickly filled in the silence. "No, Sammy, this is something else. It was never human. The locals have a name for it, they call it El Diablo. This thing makes Bigfoot look like a giant teddy bear. I'm willing to bet it's what killed these women."

Sam and Dean picked their way through the news crews and went into the little store. What the place lacked in square footage, it made up for in hodgepodge. They had a good beer selection, fishing supplies, a small library of videos (VHS only) for rental and scads of Bigfoot souvenirs. Dean thumbed through a rack of t-shirts, pausing to admire one with a cartoon rendering of the statue out front next to the words "Bigfoot stepped on me." Sam walked over to him and asked, "So how are we going to track this thing?"

"Well, most of the documented encounters happened to campers. People in tents with only a strip of nylon protecting them from the outside world." As Dean talked, he grabbed two six packs of beer from the cooler. He turned back toward Sam but was quickly distracted, "Yes!" He bolted past him and seized up a package of Jiffy Pop popcorn shaped like a pie tin with a handle. "Oh man, I love this stuff. See, the foil top puffs up as the popcorn pops!" He flashed Sam a giddy smile and said, "Grab a sleeping bag, Sammy, we're going camping." Sam cast a quick look around the dusty racks of florescent fish bait, candy bars and baking spices and threw his hands up. "Ah, don't worry Sam. I think I have an old tarp in the Impala. I like to lay it down when I'm changing the oil." Dean chuckled to himself and made his way over to the counter.

The wall behind the register looked like the back wall of a bar. The majority of the space seemingly dedicated to bottles of Jaegermeister in a multitude of various sizes. Dean let out a low whistle, "Got Jaeger?" There was a group of young people, two boys and two girls, trying to buy a 12 pack of Budweiser at the counter. The cashier, an older guy in his sixties, stood scrutinizing an I.D. "It says here that you were born in 1965," he said, looking over the rims of his glasses at a brown-haired kid who could've passed for 12. "By my calculations, that would make you now 42." Things weren't looking particularly good for this beer run. Dean caught the eye of one of the girls, a pretty blond, and flashed her a devilish smile. She met his eyes and gave him a shy smile back. Sam landed a hard elbow in his ribs and mouthed the words "Jail Bait" to him. Dean just shrugged, a gesture that, to Sam, seemed to convey, "Life is short, _I_ should know."

The cashier slid the fake I.D. back across the counter, denying the kids the alcohol. They shuffled disconsolately out of the store, the blond throwing back a last, sad look at Dean before leaving. "Try and pass an I.D. that bad on a day when the place is crawling with news vehicles," muttered the guy half to them and half to himself. "Now then, what can I do you for?" Dean hefted the six packs and the Jiffy Pop onto the counter and handed the guy his I.D. "Can you give us directions to the old boy scout camp?"

"No problem, Mr. -" he squinted at the card, "Cordell Walker."

The camp was just a 10 minute drive down the road from the store. On the way, they passed the Singer cabin, it's identity betrayed by the yellow garlands of police tape encircling it. They eventually came to a gravel road closed off from the main drag by a low gate. Dean maneuvered the Impala between the pole and a tree - groaning loudly as a pine bough raked against the passenger side. They went down a ways, then turned off when they came to a clearing. Dean got out and went around to inspect the damages. It was nothing - a small scratch. Still, he looked up at Sam with a damn-near tear in his eye and said, "The things we sacrifice for this gig." Sam shook his head. By his way of thinking, Dean's priorities, especially in the light of his deal, fell somewhere between ass-backwards and batshit crazy. "You'll recover," he said unsympathetically. "Yep, yeah…" Dean muttered weakly. Shakily, he went to the trunk and popped open the lid. He pulled out something beige and carried it over to a spot of flat earth.

"Wait a second, that's not -"

"Dad's old tent," affirmed Dean. He regarded the mangy lump of fabric fondly.

"Where did you get that?" Sam asked, a little horrified. The thing was like a bad penny.

"I pulled it out of storage while you were on a research bender a few weeks back. With all that's going on lately, I thought it might be a good idea to keep our housing options open." As he talked he rolled out the old canvas monstrosity - pulling it's corners to a rough square. He flung a grimy old bag at Sam.

"Sammy, less talk, more hustle. Grab one of those poles and help me pitch this thing." After a few missteps they erected the tent and then stood back to admire their handy work.

"What a beauty!" said Dean, invoking the Crocodile Hunter. Sam wasn't so sure. He stepped forward, unzipped the doorway and stuck his head in,

"This thing smells like the 70s." He looked back at Dean, "Now what?"

"Now we wait," he headed back toward the trunk. "From what I can figure, this thing is flesh and blood. We should be able to smoke it with regular fire power." Dean pulled out his Colt, checked the magazine and then slid it in the back of his jeans. "Head's up!" He said, tossing Sam his Taurus. Sam flashed him a look of irritation then followed suit, tucking the gun underneath his shirt.

Darkness fell. They made a fire and popped the corn - charring half of the contents over the open flame. Dean was tearing his way through the first six pack while Sam nodded, eyes closed, in the glow of the fire. "Hey, Sam, Hey!" He threw bits of blackened popcorn at him until he opened his eyes. "Head on back in there and get some sleep - I'll keep an eye out up here." Sam didn't argue, he made his way into the tent. Inside, he pulled a bunch of plaid shirts from his bag and arranged them into a rough bed in the corner. He'd driven the last shift straight through from Nevada and he was wiped. He flung himself down and was out before his head hit the plaid shirt he was using as a pillow.

The first thing he was aware of was that he was tied to a chair. The second was that he was not alone. As his eyes adjusted to the near-darkness, he could see daylight through narrow slits in wooden shutters. The place was familiar. He tested his bindings. They were secure. He stretched against the rope and as he did, looked up at the ceiling. He was sitting under a broken devil's trap. He was at Bobby's place.

"Bobby?" He called. There was a beat of silence and then a movement near the door. It wasn't Bobby, but he knew her. She stepped away from the doorway and into a sudden light.

"Meg?"

"I thought you could stand to see a familiar face."

"I'm dreaming," Sam said aloud as the realization hit him. A small smile touched Meg's lips, she stepped forward and belted him hard in the mouth. Then, instead of pulling away, she cupped his chin in her hands and kissed him deeply, painfully on the lips - greeting him in both the German and the Austrian way.

"Feels real enough, eh Sammy? Well, call me sentimental, but I've got a special place in my heart for this dump." She stood back and kicked over a stack of books, one of many, that had been piled on the floor.

"We've been through so much together here, you and I."

"Yeah, this is where we catapulted your ass back to Hell, twice." Sam sneered.

"Just once, actually," Meg said sharply. Then, switching back into her singsong, "Oh, Sam…that's not a friendly tone of voice. You're gonna want to play nice - especially since I'm here to give you information." Sam said nothing. He was steeling himself for whatever was coming next.

"Information about you…you and your responsibilities in the coming war." Sam's patience had worn thin,

"The anti-Christ thing? It's over. The Yellow-Eyed Demon is dead. We killed him, put a bullet in him just like we did your brother. The dreams have stopped, you don't have a hold on me anymore."

"Very good, Sam!" She clapped her hands, like a mother encouraging her toddler. "Did you put all that together on your own?" Sam didn't reply. "Oh, that's right, I heard you had a bitch on the side. Blond hair and black eyes is getting to be kind of a thing with you. Well, if you're trying to make me jealous, don't bother. I wouldn't get too attached to little ol' Ruby, if I were you. Now as far as you being off the payroll…" Her little-girl voice dripped menace. "Would you put money on that bet? Or your life? You see Sam, a plan like Armageddon takes more than one architect. There was a second shooter, and a third, and a fourth and a fifth…"

"Jesus," Sam gasped.

"Just the opposite, Sugar. That's where you come in," Meg straddled him now, lowering herself into his lap. She whispered, throatily, in his ear, "You're our boy." Sam stared at her in horror. She rocked a little on his groin, raking his face with her eyes. "I mean, just look at you - you're a handsome devil. Quite the tall drink of water. These cheekbones," she lightly kissed his cheekbones, practically purring. "This mouth," she tongued the blood on his lips. "These eyes…one look into these baby blues and the whole world's gonna be putty in your hands." Sam was shaking now, his nostrils flared, his breathing labored.

"No. No…"

Meg continued over his protests. "After all the time and effort we put into you, it would be plain irresponsible not to put you to good use! You see, Sammy, you're going to be our leader. You're gonna call the flock and they're gonna come. Line up like sheep in the glow of your 'charm.' You'll give them salvation, Sam. A reason for living and, when necessary, a reason for dying." She was slowly moving on him now.

"I'll never do it," he spat. He was in agony, in terror - but fighting arousal, too. His body wanted so much to push itself into hers.

"I will kill myself first."

"Oh, baby" Meg cooed, "You won't have a choice."  
On the last word, the toothy sound of a zipper knifed it's way into Sam's consciousness and he snapped open his eyes. He blinked and was startled to see Dean's giant head staring down at him through the tent's opening.

"See Sammy, I knew you'd get the hang of pitching tents in no time." Hastily, Sam snatched up a flannel shirt and flung it over his lap. He cleared his throat.

"Uh, what time is it?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Morning…hey, are you ok? Your lip's bleeding." Sam touched a finger to his lip and, sure enough, it glistened red. Meg's seduction wasn't the only thing he brought out of the dream. Still unnerved, he made a quick decision not to tell Dean about it.

"Oh, uh, I must've banged my head against something in my sleep." Dean raised an eyebrow and smiled, "That must've been some dream." Sam ignored him, "Did you get any rest?"

"Nah, you know - I'll sleep when I'm dead." Sam started to say something, wanting to appeal to Dean's sense of self-preservation. However, a look at Dean's eyes, which were hard, made him think better of if. He nodded instead and kept his mouth shut.

"Hey," said Dean with sudden cheer, "We got new neighbors last night." He unzipped the tent further so Sam could peer out. Sure enough, a pickup truck was parked about 20 yards away with a big, new, nylon tent set up next to it. As they looked, the tent zipped open from the inside and the young blond from the store the previous day stuck her head out. Dean flashed a wide smile at Sam who fell back onto his pile of shirts with a groan.

They spent the day going over the crime scenes. Maggie Singer's cabin wasn't offering Dean any new clues. It was tidy, unmolested - except for the bedroom. The room itself seemed surprised at what'd taken place there. The dresser, nightstand and bed, though unmade, seemed to inhabit a very orderly world. That they were splashed and splattered in dried blood and bits of gore lent the scene and even greater sense of obscenity. But beyond the bits of Maggie, there were no other marks or traces that pointed to the identity of her attacker. Dean looked up as Sam entered the bedroom.

"Any luck?" He asked as he nudged what might have been an ear fragment with the eraser tip of a pencil.

"No," Sam sighed, frustrated. "None of the neighbors saw anything. No one heard anything. There hasn't even been a bear sighting around here for more than a year."

"Did you find anything outside: paw prints, tracks, maybe the creature dropped it's wallet?" Dean quipped.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. You?"

"Negative. There's a lot of Maggie scattered around, but whatever attacked her was smart enough not to leave any traces of itself behind." Dean checked his watch, "Maybe we'll have better luck with the ranger."

They made their way over to Pinecrest Lake where the body of hiker, Nita Mayo, had been discovered 10 days earlier. They left the Impala on the side of a gravel road and hiked up a short trail to the Pinecrest Dam. Ranger Jack Harrison was already waiting for them on the dam's walkway - a narrow stretch of concrete bordered on one side by the dam wall and on the other by nothing but a steep, rocky fall. Dean, who wasn't a fan of flying or other high spaces, wanted to puke a little.

"Are you the boys from the Wildlife Bureau?" Harrison asked as they approached.

"Yeah - Ranger Harrison?" Jack Harrison gave Sam an affirming nod. "Thanks for meeting us here. I'm Travis Cornell and this is my partner, Vince Nasco. Is this where they found the body of the hiker?"

"Yeah, Nita Mayo, she turned up under there," Jack said, pointing to the metal catwalk Sam and Dean had crossed to reach the walkway. "PG&E drains the lake at the end of each season. She disappeared back in late June. Tuolumne County Search and Rescue combed the area and the whole town looking for her, but finally called it off after a month. Then, last week, when the water level got low enough, they found her. She was tangled up there under some tree roots."

"She'd been attacked?" Sam asked.

"More than that, she'd been half-eaten. Organs, liver and, like the Singer woman, half her face and skull were missing. In both cases, the coroner said the thing most-likely went for the throats first, cutting off their screams." Dean put a protective hand to his throat, not realizing he was doing it, "Do you have any theories as to what attacked her?"

"Well," mused Ranger Jack, taking off his hat and leaning against the wall to stare out at the nearly-empty lake, "The scale of the attack suggests a bear, but the pattern of the bite wounds more closely resembles a canine's." Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "To me, it looked almost like she was set on by a pack of wolves."

"Thank you for your time."

Big Ted steered his hog into the lot of the Strawberry Inn, a restaurant slash biker bar across the road from the Strawberry Store. His buddies; Pig Bog, Greaser and Skuzz followed suit, lining their motorcycles in a row next to his. It had been a long haul from the Bay Area, their faces were chapped and their balls were humming the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Big Ted, by virtue of his massive size and height, was the de facto leader of the pack. He was looking forward to drowning his recent troubles in 10 or 12 cold ones before heading back to his old cabin for the night.

They went in, ignoring the 'Please Wait to be Seated' sign and headed straight back to the bar. As far as watering holes were concerned, you couldn't beat the Strawberry Inn for ambiance. The bar was built on a deck that stretched out into the trees. Beneath it, the Stanislaus River pulsed along through the county, making its way past Maggie Singer's cabin and the Boy Scout camp further on. They sidled up to the bar. Ted pulled out a corner stool - one with a good view of the trees - and ordered the first beer of the evening.

Pig Bog, Greaser and Skuzz were in high spirits, they always looked forward to these weekends, the semi-annual meetings of their Hell's Angels chapter. Big Ted was having a hard time matching their enthusiasm, he'd spent the previous night wedged awkwardly onto Pig Bog's flea-infested sofa and he was feeling eight different kinds of surly. He kept quiet and nursed his beer, his eyes drifting aimlessly toward the window and the forest beyond.

Skuzz, on the other hand, was a twitchy bundle of good cheer. He made quick work of his first couple of beers and was now tipping his hat and saying "hello darlin'" to numero three. He could feel the warm glow itching its way up his neck and into his cheeks filling him with a sense of well-being that made him want to reach out and touch someone. The someone in question being Dolores, the bartender. She was built like a tree stump and had a wine-colored birthmark the shape of Florida on her left cheek. In other words, she was looking good. She ran a damp cloth along the length of the counter.

"Hi Dolores," Skuzz said lustily, "Boy, you sure know how to polish a bar." Dolores didn't acknowledge him. He tried again, "Anyone ever tell you what a pretty smile you have?" Dolores wasn't smiling. Dolores hadn't smiled all night. Its possible Dolores hadn't smiled all week. She stopped wiping the wood and fixed him with a cold eye. It was the kind of look, as they say, where boners go to die. Skuzz quickly pried himself from the icy hold of her gaze and turned his attention to Big Ted.

"B.T., buddy, how about a round of darts?" Big Ted didn't seem to hear him. He tipped his head back and took a long draw from his beer.

"Ted!" Skuzz said again, snatching up two darts from a nearby table and shaking them, "Darts!"  
"Piss off, Skuzz." Ted Growled. It wasn't Skuzz's night. He walked to where Pig Bog and Greaser sat,

"Hey, what's eating Big Ted?" he asked them. Pig Bog raised a beady eye and said, "Lady troubles." Then, he snuck a furtive glance toward Big Ted and dished,

"He caught her with another _man." _On the word 'man' Pig Bog and Greaser erupted into a chorus of girlish giggles. Skuzz looked between the two of them,

"What? What is it?" Pig Bog motioned for Skuzz to lean in, then,

"Well, according to B.T., he walked in to find his old lady in bed with a midget, you know, one of the _little people._"

"No!" Skuzz gasped. Apparently Big Ted's gal was a fan of extremes. They all broke into a round of giddy chuckles which they choked to an abrupt halt when they noticed B.T. fixing them with a dangerous eye.

Big Ted scowled at his three "compadres" - laughing it up at his expense. He was pissed at himself for telling Pig Bog about the, uh, height aspect. Before the night was through, he knew, they would all think Carla had left him for a one-legged albino midget. He turned his gaze away from them and toward the window. It was still daytime, but the light was cold and flat. He looked out into the brush and was suddenly overcome with the sensation that he was being watched. He stared hard into the trees, his eyes snagging on a pocket of dark shadow. As he looked, something materialized - showing itself for a fragment of a second. The color drained from Big Ted's face and, forgetting himself, he screamed. It was the high-pitched scream of a little girl who had just come face-to-face with the creature under her bed.

Following their meeting with the ranger, Sam and Dean went back to the Strawberry Store. They used the store's payphone to check in with Bobby since they couldn't get a signal on their cells. Dean came out as Sam hung the phone up, hugging a bag of groceries.

"Any news?" he asked, falling into step next to him as they headed back toward the car.

"No, not really. Bobby's been looking into a few possible omens, strange occurrences, across the South, but other than that-"

"All's quiet on the demonic front?" Dean finished.

"All's quiet on the demonic front." Sam affirmed.

"Good, that's what I like to hear." As Dean deposited the groceries in the backseat of the car a ruckus started up across the street. People - a flurry of denim, flannel and leather came pouring out of the Strawberry Inn and running around to the side of the building.

They were led by a very large, very terrified looking man in biker gear. Sam and Dean exchanged a look and then hightailed it across the street to join the crowd. Dean walked up to a woman in her 40s, shaped like a tree-stump,

"What's going on?" he asked, adopting the roll of curious spectator.

"Big Ted saw Bigfoot," she was looking at the large biker who, at the moment, was pointing an emphatic finger and insisting, "He was right _there_!"

"That's Big Ted?" he cocked an eyebrow. She nodded. "Whoa. Bigfoot meet Big Ted. I'd like to see that Celebrity Death Match." She looked at him like he was a moron. Unfazed, Dean made a beeline for Ted, who was now standing a ways apart from the crowd and wringing his meaty hands.

"Teddy!" he intoned warmly, with the enthusiasm of one who has spotted an old friend. "Heard you saw the man himself - Bigfoot." Ted regarded him the way a rottweiler might regard a tick on its nutsack. Dean pressed on, "Can you tell me what it looked like?"

"It was awful." The voice didn't match the man. It was small and had been dipped in terror and rolled in terror-flavored terror bits. After that, it had been dusted with a fine coating of powdered terror and finished off with a sprig of fresh crap your pants.

"It was taller than a man…and…and covered in hair from head to foot. It had sharp teeth that seemed to glow in the moonlight," Dean glanced around - it was still daytime, "and its eyes-" at this point Ted broke down into a mucousy whimper. "Its eyes glowed red and stared right into my soul!" Dean's right eyebrow was raised so high it was almost hitting his hairline.

While Dean was talking to Big Ted, Sam had found himself next to Pig Bog, Greaser and Skuzz. Their heads were bowed and they were discussing their friend in concerned whispers.

"Oh man, he's really lost it this time!" Greaser fretted.

"Do you think he really saw Bigfoot?" Skuzz wondered.

"What? Didn't you see him" shot Pig Bog. "He ran right through here chasing after the Easter Bunny on his way to ImaginationLand." Then, seeing the confusion on Skuzz's face, "No, I don't think B.T. saw Bigfoot. It was probably just a deer or a, a-" his mental catalogue of wilderness animals failed him.

"Well, can you blame him?" Greaser chimed in, defensively. "I mean if I just caught my old lady with a hunchbacked mulatto dwarf - I'd be seeing things, too!"

Sam had heard enough.

"Dean, I think we might be wasting our time here." It was evening again and they were sitting around the campfire. Dean took the last bit of a blackened hot dog (on a stick) and let out a thick burp. He patted his stomach in satisfaction.

"Don't worry, Sammy, we'll catch it."

"Catch what, Dean? We spent the whole day chasing after this thing and we still don't know for sure that it was even the Diablo that killed this woman. It _could_ have been a pack of wolves or a bear. We've been here for two days, we should be out looking for demons or-"

"You said Bobby had it under control." Dean gave him a hard look.

"He does - It's just that, we should be using this down time be researching, looking for a way out of your deal."

"Sam-" Dean cut in, there was a warning edge in his voice. Sam couldn't stop himself. The small avenue of hope he'd been holding onto, since Ruby suggested she could help Dean, had faltered after his run-in with Meg.

"Dean, I'm not just going to give up and stop looking!"

"Yes you will!" Dean exploded. "Just shut up about the deal, forget about the goddamn deal! It's done Sam! How many times do I have to tell you, we try and weasel out of this thing and your dead. You fall down right where you're standing. I told you, you've got to let this go. Let it go. Don't make me tell you again."

"But-" Sam started.

"But nothing, Sammy." Avoiding Sam's eyes, he continued in a calmer voice, "Listen to me, I'm right about the Diablo, it'll turn up." It was a subject change, but Sam picked it up. He didn't want to keep fighting with his brother.

The kids next door also had a fire going. One of the boys had produced and was strumming an acoustic guitar, though he only seemed to know Johnny B. Good and a few Cat Stevens songs. He was already on his second round.

"How do you know so much about the Diablo anyway?" Sam asked

"Oh," Dean cleared his throat and appeared to concentrate on a speck of something on his jeans, "Art Bell did a feature on it on his show a few years back."

"Art Bell?" snorted Sam. "Aliens and conspiracies, mail order wife Art Bell?  
"That's the one," said Dean irritably.

"Dean, that guy's about as reliable as the Weekly World News!" he laughed.

"Hey, we've gotten some good leads from the Weekly World News. Don't forget about that trickster back in Ohio." Dean wasn't a fan of being laughed at.

"Yeah, yeah…" said Sam, stifling a chuckle. "You're right." Dean threw him a sour look, then stood, grabbing the remaining six pack.

"Well, this has been buckets of fun, but I'm going to go introduce myself to the neighbors."

"Dean-" Sam called but was ignored. "Oh, Dean - don't go, I was just about to make smores!" There was a good chance that Dean flashed his brother an obscene gesture, but it was hard to tell in the growing dark. Sam watched as Dean approached the neighboring camp, making straight for the blond.

"Sure it's all fun and games now," he said to the empty air, "but you'll be sorry when I save your ass and your stuck with a raging case of herpes."

With Dean gone, Sam's thoughts turned back to the dream. He rubbed absently at his swollen lip and pulled his jacket tighter around him. Between Dean's deal and Meg's threats, he had never felt so doomed before. Sure, they had been it tight spots, but Hell had never been so close on their heels. It was just that no matter what came at them, he always knew they'd find some way to beat it. But this time was different.

The wind shifted, carrying Dean's voice and a fragment of conversation, "This is a nice tent…if you like non-flammable fabric." Sam chuckled fondly to himself. As he stared into the fire, it's flame dancing merrily in a soft breeze, he heard Meg's words again, "You're our boy." He shivered. The night pushed in on him from all sides. He was the solitary figure in a world of darkness. He had never felt so alone.

Not wanting to think about it any longer, he decided to join the campfire program. Dean was sitting on an ice chest. He'd somehow managed to con the acoustic guitar away from the kid and had begun strumming the first few bars of _Stairway to Heaven_. He paused, appearing to now be in high spirits, "Sammy! Have a seat. I was just about to give these youngsters a lesson in rock n' roll." Sam looked around the group at the kids' faces. They weren't quite hostile, but they were close.

"Uh, do you guys mind if I join you?" There was a collective shrug. "Thanks," he sat awkwardly on the ground. Everyone was silent.

"So, what brings you guys out here?" he asked, before Dean could start in on the guitar again.

"They're hunting Bigfoot," Dean supplied, meeting Sam's eyes.

"Really? So you guys believe what they're saying. That Bigfoot killed those two women?" That seemed to get the ball rolling. They all started piping in with stories, encounters their parents or friends of friends had had with the creature. Sightings and large foot prints left outside of cabin windows.

"But in all these stories," Sam broke in, "Bigfoot never hurt anyone. He was just spotted wandering around the forest. Why would he suddenly start attacking people?"  
"Nuclear waste," offered one kid. "Maybe he fell in a vat of it and now he's a mutant monster."

"That _the Joker_, genius," fired another kid.

"Maybe he's angry at us for destroying the planet," suggested one of the girls.

"Maybe he's just hungry," joked the brown-haired kid. "He hasn't been out of his cave for what, over 30 years? You know, I heard that woman in the house also had a cat - and at the scene - all they found left of it was a long, fluffy tail!"

"No, not the kitty!" squealed the blond. The kid went on, relishing her reaction, "that thing was a Scooby snack!" The chorus of laughter and groans screeched to an abrupt halt then, as the sound of a breaking twig came issuing out from the trees that bordered the camp. They were all startled into silence as they peered into the darkness, the kids edging closer to each other. The brown-haired one pulled out a flashlight, one of those giant ones that run on something like a car battery and was also a radio. He switched it on and swept the beam over the trees. To the left, then,

"Holy shit!" There was a general gasp as the light hit on something in the space between two trees, what had to be eyes. There were two of them, but they were so far apart, they had to be coming from two separate creatures.

"Th-there's two of them," whispered one of the girls, her voice strained with terror.

"Shh!" hushed Dean. As if in response to the girl's words the two eyes turned, in unison, toward them. All Pandemonium broke out as everyone screamed, realizing now that it was just one creature. One giant, fricking creature. The kids, still screaming, ran blindly for their truck. Sam and Dean, guns already out, charged into the trees. Behind them, an engine roared to life as the kids fled. There was a discordant burst of anemic alternative pop from the truck's radio as they mowed over their tent in their terror to flee.

Sam and Dean split up and crashed through the forest pursuing the Diablo down the treacherous slope to where the trees met the Stanislaus River. Sam bounded down the hill, sliding a little on nettles and soft dirt. The forest floor was punctured with snake holes. He struggled to remain upright in the blackness as he made his way closer to the river. The roar of the rapid water increased in volume as he neared it. He was less than 10 yards from it's banks when Dean and the creature came into view.

Dean had the Diablo cornered between the river and the barrel of his gun. The two looked like phantom figures in the near-total dark. Sam took in what he could of the creature in the moon's faint light. It was a monster all right: over seven feet tall and covered in mottled grey fur. It's humanlike fingers were capped by gruesome claws - claws that could tear a man's, or woman's, throat out. But the head was the most awful thing about it. Huge, scarred, inhuman. It's teeth and snout were that of a wolf's, but the eyes, transferred into silvery coins by the moonlight, brimmed with intelligence. It was more than just a caged animal, it seemed to be considering it's own situation.

Silently, Sam edged nearer to the scene. The Diablo's wolf-like ears twitched in his direction. Dean seized on the moment, the small distraction, to step forward.

"You're history, buddy." His finger was already on the trigger when the thing turned it's full attention on him and lunged. He squeezed the shot off. The creature staggered, let out a coyote-like scream of rage and pain, but continued it's onslaught. It hurled itself at Dean, knocking him down.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He aimed his gun at what had become a mass of writhing limbs and body parts, trying to get a clean shot.

"Sam - shoot the bastard!" Dean gasped from beneath the creature. He was fighting for his life, but the ranger's words still with him, he kept one arm raised protecting his throat. Sam was trying. He looked hopelessly at the wriggling pile and, still clutching his gun, leapt onto the Diablo's back. There was a grunt from Dean as Sam's weight was added to his load.

"Sammy, I said shoot it, not hug it!" The creature, his attack on Dean unhindered, bucked hard, trying to dislodge Sam from his back. Dean grunted again as it landed a few kicks in his groin and abdomen. Still riding the creature, Sam slammed his gun into the side of it's head. He did it again and again until finally, it's grip on Dean began to slacken. It was breathing through it's nostrils now, a high-pitched wheeze. Even that was creepy. Taking advantage of the slight break, Dean lifted his knees and kicked the son of a bitch full on in the chest with both feet. The creature fell back, taking Sam with it. In that moment, something changed in Sam. Something imperceptible in his face. His demeanor. Moving fast, Sam twisted himself upright and grabbed the thing by the short hairs (of it's head). Even on it's knees it came up to Sam's shoulders. Then, in one swift movement, with knife-like efficiency, Sam snapped the creature's head back and twisted it. Twisted it exactly the way Jake had twisted Ava's head back in Cold Oak.

In the silence that followed, Dean stared up at his brother. Sam's eyes, which had been far, far away, suddenly clicked into place and took in the scene. He looked at his hands and the creature lying in front of him and his mouth twisted.

"Sammy-" Dean whispered. Sam met his eyes and, before Dean could hide it, he saw his own fear reflected there. Fear and something else. He turned toward the river, the water steadily threading its way between rocks and fallen trees. He went forward, stepping into the icy current.

"Sam!" Dean called, following him now. They stood at the river's center, the water (shallow despite it's roar) just grazing their knees. Staring at the darkness of the opposite bank, Sam said,

"I don't think Hell's done with me." He said it low, barely audible over the sound of the current, but Dean heard him.

"What? That?" Dean said with forced joviality, "that was just good hunting, that's all." Sam shook his head,

"You're right. It _would_ have been a good kill if I'd been in control."

"Oh, come on, Sammy! That was just instinct, reflexes - from years on the job. You're not possessed. You're good at what you do. It doesn't mean you have to go flying off the handle every time you smoke somethi-"

"I saw Meg last night," Sam interrupted, cutting him off.

"What? Here?" Alarmed, Dean instinctively moved his hand toward the handle of his gun.

"She came to me in a dream."

"A dream, Sammy, all this is about a _dream!_" Sam pointed to his swollen lip, parroting Meg,

"It was real enough, Dean." Dean regarded his brother for a moment. Something pulsed in his jaw.

"So what'd that bitch have to say?"

"She told me that they're not done with me. She said that I'm supposed to lead."

"Lead what?"

"People, demons. In the coming war. I'm supposed to call them to me and lead them."

"What - like a, like a friggin' antichrist?" Sam just nodded. The water may have been just knee-deep, but he was drowning. He could see the wheels turning in Dean's head. See the implications of what he'd said knocking around in there. The thing was, he didn't look all that surprised.

"Well, forget that. Look, just because demonskank pulls a Freddie Krueger on your ass doesn't mean you need to buy into her B.S.!"

"Dean, it wasn't-" Sam tried to break in.

"You're _not_ evil, Sammy! You don't have a evil bone in you. She's just messing with you. Trying to screw with your head. It's what they do."

"She was telling the truth. Ruby tried to tell me. That demon - pride - even alluded to it back in Lincoln. I just didn't want to believe."

"Well, then you're just going to fight harder to resist this thing!" Sam let out a strangled laugh.

"Fight harder? You sound like dad. Dean, through everything, through all of this, you've always believed in me. That I was good. It means a lot. Hell, it means everything." Sam stared out into that darkness. That void.

"Sammy, come on-" Sam was scaring him, now.

"That belief in me, that's the only thing I have worth fighting for."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? Everything's gone. Everyone we ever cared about. If you're asking me to fight for hope and goodness, you're not giving me much to go on." Dean was having a hard time coming up with an inspirational slogan, he knew as well as Sam the price they'd paid.

"What about all the people we've saved. That'd be dead if it weren't for us," he tried.

"Yeah and I'm supposed to sit back and watch the one person I give a damn about die! Sometimes, Dean, I get to thinking that without you around - when you're gone, I don't know if I'm going to be able to make it."

"Sammy, Jesus!" Sam turned back to Dean, looking at him point blank.

"I don't think I'm going to make it." Dean looked stricken. "That's why - no matter what you do or say, I'm going to keep looking for a way out of your deal. I'm going to find a way to save you. I _have_ to." Dean held his gaze.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay, Sammy."

"Thank you," the look Sam gave him then was so grateful, it was heartbreaking. They made their way back up the mountain, to the camp, in silence. They packed up the tent and loaded the car, ignoring the expensive debris left behind by the kids. Taking a last look around their campsite, Dean mused, "If you're the anti-Christ, what does that make me? Fred Claus?" Sam gave him a funny look. Dean smirked and opened his door, "Let's roll, Damian."


End file.
